


Loveless

by Hyoushin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Related, Flash Fiction Format, Grey Harry, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Tense, Possibly Pre-Slash, Present Tense, Time Travel Fix-It, Timeline What Timeline, Tom-centric, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of being vanquished, he is saved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Another canon based AU idea I'm throwing out and that I may or may not finish.  
> Not beta'ed. 
> 
> Edited: a newer ver. was posted. I keep having endless scuffles with grammar. I'm still getting used to present tense.

  **I**  
  


**1.1 Premonition**

A child looks out the window to see a gaggle of children running around on the front yard. They are shouting, playing, with grins upon their jubilant faces; greedily soaking up the midsummer heat. What the child sees is a perfect picture of innocent joy, of free and unrestrained playfulness, the kind children are known to usually exhibit, and this, makes the child uneasy; for he knows he cannot behave how he is expected to. He frowns, his cold stare fixed on the scene.

He thinks he should probably be there. Mingling with the other boys and girls, acting like them, having fun with all of them while enjoying the brief respite that summer represents. Because that is what a child of his age is supposed to do. However, he remains in a small room, shrouded in shifting shadows, projecting a phantasmal silhouette onto a pair of thin and tattered curtains.

In spite of being a precocious child, he is still too young and so there are many things he cannot fully comprehend; like the strange and powerful sensation that seizes him in this instant, snatching his consciousness and submerging it into a colorless abyss. He is suspended in a timeless dimension wherein he embraces whatever it is that makes him feel _different_ : an alien entity whose origins can be traced back to another wondrous world he fervently believes he will return to one day.

The mystical discontinuity in his reality mends itself abruptly, and as a result, the boy is utterly bewildered and overwhelmed. He blinks and gasps like a drowning man. He clutches his head with one of his hands, while the other grips the windowsill to hold himself up. His slight frame trembles from the unexplainable assault to his mind and to his senses, and yet he does not stop his tireless watch on the children, even if the aftereffects of the atypical occurrence renders him blind to the ongoing game of tag outside; deafens him to the cheerful echoes of ringing laughter; freezes the sharp tugs of faint longing in his chest.

The boy now has a bizarre precognitive certainty that there is a place, ready for him, awaiting his arrival. The image of a number springs up in his head: _eleven_. The boy decides he does not need their acceptance seeing as he will soon depart, the ambiguity of his destination not undermining his faith. Then, for the first time, Tom Riddle smiles.

 

**1.2 Overture**

Tom learns something he already instinctively knew. He is truly overjoyed. Magic is real, not a fabled concept used in fairytales. But then, he is forced to expose what he has hidden in a corner of a mostly empty wardrobe. The items he has abstracted from other children are laid upon the bed. His joy is dampened down by rising trepidation.

Tom looks up, and he is crucified by clear blue eyes.

Who does he think he is to come here and sit in judgment? I have nothing. I’ve been abandoned. Forgotten. I’ve had to teach and raise myself. This old man has the audacity to reprimand me and try to implant in me a moral lesson when I don’t even know him? Eleven years too late for that. No one cares. I’ve been fine on my own. Grown-ups won’t ever understand! I won’t _change_ just because he says so! I can’t! It’s absurd—

Tom accepts the offer. The old man leaves. Tom does not know his thoughts were heard as if he had voiced them; nor does he know about the inherent malignancy underlining them. The old man is oblivious to the indelible antagonism he has sowed between them.

**1.3 Novelty**

Tom is captivated by the magnificence of the castle before him. His new home is an ancient and imposing structure, filled with countless secrets and saturated with magical energy. He could not have asked for anything better, and Tom wishes he could stay here in this enchanted abode forever. The gates of his mind are open, letting in a ceaseless stream of information that washes away all the residual beliefs which have a persistent muggle influence.

He walks through the hallways, expectant and perhaps a tad anxious, for he is a student with a non-magical background within a fresh assembly of bright-eyed first years with magical families. Tom would rather not dwell on such thoughts, and instead gazes at every feature his rightful home has, admitting only to himself that he is still incredulous. A small part of him fears this might be just a hopeful dream that will vanish as soon as it is time to wake up for morning prayers.

His eyes widen a little, glowing with wonder as he arrives at the Great Hall, noting a midnight blue sky embossed with multicolored stars right above him. He waits for his name to be called with patience. But he also feels a bit apprehensive, at seeing that a magical artefact will intrude into his mind and browse its contents. There are certain _things_ he does not want anyone to know.

A timeworn hat crowns his head. His mind is scanned, and the reprobation he imagined before his turn remained a dreadful daydream. Briefly, he toys with the idea if it is possible to learn to do what this hat does.

The Hat upon his head muses for a few minutes if Slytherin is the right House for him. Ravenclaw could be a nice fit too, the Hat whispers. But then, it contradicts itself by muttering an unintelligible string of baffling matters which fly over Tom’s head, and therefore picking his curiosity, such as Inheritance, extinct Bloodlines, and random remarks like how hard it is to be objective sometimes.

The Hat is marveled by his mental acuity and undeveloped talent, but it warns him as well about a most curious _unbalance_ Tom has, and the hazard this will pose as he matures. Tom’s swift inquiries on that particular observation went unanswered. The end of the Hat’s deliberation is sudden, and it comes with the election and announcement of a House.

His new Family is situated a few paces away, numerous eyes dissecting him in silence, their expressions judgmental as their fangs gnaw on preconceived notions. Tom is confused, but his face reveals nothing. Tom is unfazed at their initial hesitation to make room for him. As he makes to sit, he even identifies varying degrees of dislike on some of those unknown faces.

‘It’s all right,’ Tom concludes, ‘because if there isn’t any room for me, then I will dig and build a place big enough for me.’

**1.4 Transition**

He is an anonymous figure in a House full of privileged young aristocrats. They either know or have heard of each other. Tom supposes their pureblooded families are all interconnected; it will not surprise him if they actually are. Tom perceives a large web around them he thinks is designed to be impenetrable for people of his ilk.

But it mattered not, since their web will be disentangled little by little—it is the objective of his personal mission. He lacks an eminent ancestry but Tom ignores this for the meantime, as he invests most of his time learning, practicing, researching, reviewing, theorizing—becoming a common and permanent fixture between the aisles of the cavernous library for which Hogwarts is renowned.

Determination is what guides him as he scales the academic ladder with relative ease.

He is still a shadow, unimportant, invisible, hence no one notices when he observes their behavior, analyzes their actions, learns their history, studies their culture, and asks the right questions.

Using the data he has gathered for two and a half years, he crafts with meticulous attention the persona he will gradually start to assimilate.

**1.5 Marked  
**

Tom dutifully returns to the world for which his rancor grows as time passes.

He is used to be greeted by sorrow, devastation, and _death_. As always, the city is infused with a funereal air. The months crawl by, September seems too far away. The roof over his head is emitting threatening groans, while sleep is reluctant to comply with his wishes as dread clenches his hard beating heart tonight. In his confinement he can only recall vivid memories which describe with frightening accuracy the current state of this forsaken city.

His eyes close and _—‘I can’t find him!’_ , _falling_ _hunks of concrete, dead bodies, a crying girl, burnt flesh, ‘Help! Please! My wife—needs—!’, scattered limbs, dark clouds of smoke, people running-stumbling-crawling, a buzz in his ears, quaking streets, columns of fire, mounds of debris, charred toys, flashes of light, high pitched screams, ‘My baby! Where’s my baby boy?’_

His eyes snap open. Sleep will not reach him once again.

 

**1.6 Ascendancy**

To them, he is an existence much too powerful, implacable, and therefore, venerable in spite of his youth, and that is the face he shows to them. Then, there is the face he shows to the adults, which is an open, beatific, and amiable one. Last but not least, there is also the face he shows to the rest of the students, gentle, approachable, and solicitous when the situation demands it.

What is his true face? They speculate that all the facets that coexist in seeming harmony within him veil the authentic one, or it may be he does not have a true face; perhaps he is an ever-changing creature who can imitate and camouflage to perfection but does not have a final form.

They overhear words spoken in _Parseltongue_ slipping out of his lips. They catch a glimpse of the head of a snake resting on his shoulder, its lengthy body coiling around his torso like an animated armor. Now it is _they_ who ought to lower their heads and bend their knees. _They_ who are being downgraded from revered nobility to deferential populace.

In a battle of clever stratagems, tedious politics, and smooth diplomacy, their web is dismantled; their hierarchy obliterated. And thus, after nearly five years, the boy they sneered at and undervalued sits in a gilded throne upon the summit, with a silvered crown on his head and a scepter in his hand.

He is victorious.

His rule is absolute.

 

**1.7 Adolescence**

Tom is aware of the stares he receives. The female faction of the student body is expressing an unwelcome interest on him. “What changed?” Tom mutters.

Fifth year has barely started, but he notices the ambiance of the school is…somewhat altered? Or has it always been this way, so this overtone of something he cannot identify quite yet is evident now because of his age? At first, Tom is perplexed. Thus, he examines the comportment of the boys and girls in his year and above. As he does so, he is disappointed in the answer that slowly lands on his mind.

Pairs of boys and girls walking hand in hand towards the Great Hall. Charmed notes and letters flying around in History of Magic. Boys watching girls with wicked glints in their eyes. Everyone is feeling attracted to someone. Everyone has someone they wish to approach. The conversations have girlfriend, boyfriend, like, love, sex and other synonyms as keywords.

He is given unsigned notes, letters, trinkets, and confectionary he trashes without a second thought. Every day he walks through the hallways containing his burning irritation at the impulsive sighs, at the outburst of giggles and titters, the admiring eyes and coquettish glances, the affected coyness and useless demureness, the embarrassed smiles and saccharine grins.

Why? Why are they doing this? They, all the boys and girls, wasting their time in a constant and senseless hunt for a fleeting immature romance as if it is an essential must that has to be fulfilled. Is it an inborn aspect of human beings? To forever search for love and taste all the flavors of it?

All of them are following the same pattern. Tom cannot comprehend it. He finds that he does not have it; that _drive_ all of them naturally possess, that chronic _need_ inducing them to do the things they often do as well as encouraging them to move towards something only they can make out.

Tom cannot comprehend it, so he classifies it as irrelevant.

He thinks it is saddening to see Hogwarts this awfully contaminated. Tom regards this development as the most unwanted juvenile disease. Furthermore, it appears to be contagious, and as a precaution, he steers clear of it all, disdaining the irrationality of the lovesick and lascivious conduct of the many. As usual, he sequesters himself in the library, the deserted place providing the quietude he wants.

Behind a barricade of thick and antique tomes that conveniently hide him from view, Tom’s relentless search for more clues recommences, for he disbelieves the claim that the existence of the Chamber of Secrets is just a fictitious tale.

**1.8 Empty**

The Ravenclaw girl gazes at him with her pretty hazel eyes. She is a comely girl with her dirty blond hair arranged in a neat bun. A hair clip restrains a disobedient blond curl from spoiling the overall charming result of her simple but elegant coiffure. Her hazel eyes are wide as they beseech his assent.

A date. She wants, “a date, or two, or three, and maybe much more than that.”

The girl is daring. Tom will give her some credit for that.

It is an irrefutable fact that any other boy would have said yes in a second because of her beauty; and her intelligence, although this is not a quality most boys are looking for. He can give his assent, go to the date, and give her what she wants, however, what is the point of that? She does not _know_ him. Like everybody else, she is enamored with what he artfully personifies: a perfect gentleman with a tragic past. Will she still like him if she sees what is inside? Will she still like him if he takes off the disguise?

If he chooses to be realistic about it then no. She will not. What will happen then? He is unwilling to contemplate the potential danger too closely. So it stands to reason that it is better if he lets her, and everybody else, be enthralled with his flawless portrait for as long as possible.

“My deepest apologies.” Tom bows his head slightly. “I’m afraid I must reject your proposal.”

She gasps. “What? Why?” She looks surprised as though rejection is merely an impossibility. In her life, maybe it is. So she perseveres, and hurries on, “If you’re busy, what about the next Hogsmeade weekend?”

“I…hope you understand, but I’m currently engaged in certain affairs of extreme importance. In such occasions, a woman should have a man’s undivided attention, and I worry that with these matters plaguing my mind I’d be unable to give my undivided attention to you.” Feigned regretfulness is there on his face for her to catch. “Certainly, my inattentiveness would be a most unfitting companion for a lovely lady like you.”

A rosy blush tints her cheeks. She shrugs. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I understand. But—would you think about it again when you have enough free time?”

She clearly did not understand. Tom has to tame the anger that wants to break out of its prison. Instead of lashing out, he smiles brightly. “Thank you. If you will excuse me, I’ve been summoned by Professor Slughorn.” He says, not confirming on purpose whether he will think about it or not. He bows again, and goes inside the castle, his feet leading him towards the dormitory. He speeds up his pace to avoid any prearranged invitations to have tea and biscuits or butterbeer and sweets that might pop up.

Unfortunately, this trend carries on throughout the following months. He becomes skilled at fabricating pretexts he uses to back up his refusals.

Because the truth is, he has discovered he cannot feel that which other boys like to affirm they feel. Mild curiosity is not sufficient for him to say yes, and partake in the suggestive activities the others are boasting about doing. He definitely does not want to be like all those witless boys who seem to be competing in an idiotic sort of tacit contest. They prefer to dally with foolish girls instead of bettering themselves by focusing on their studies, but Tom remembers they are mere children with their futures already planned by their families. He thinks it is fine if their diminutive brains wither since they will not need it.

He has been asked to join them, but he has declined all their invites. He is sure there is not a thing to be gained in participating in their worthless meetings, which consist of boisterous chats about dull childish topics over smuggled firewhisky. Besides, Tom knows he does not have a contribution to make. He is not stimulated by anything or by anyone. Attraction, arousal, desire—there is nothing.  
                                                                                                                                                                
(Sometimes he tries to haul whatever there might be in him to the outside, but meets a hollow so deep that cannot be measured by any means.)

He feels nothing.

Then again, he is _different._

(Always the odd one.)

**1.9 Green**

‘One’ Tom waits for them to strike first. ‘Two’

To be attacked in an alley during his patrolling duty at Hogsmeade would definitely count as an uncommon event. He has been sensing a watchful gaze on him, and his instincts have never been wrong before, so he keeps strolling along the dank and dirty alley.

‘Three!’

He is midway when a chilling blast ruffles his hair and robes. He swivels around, whips out his wand and mutters, “Diffindo!”

The light of the spell wipes out the gloom temporarily. It hits no one, leaving a ghostly gash in the foggy atmosphere as an aggravating remainder. Is it his imagination after all? No. Someone has been tailing him. Where are they? Behind him or before him? Tom leans against the stone wall, moving his head from side to side, slow and cautious.

They must be under a Disillusionment Charm. He can _sense_ their magic. It is concealed yet not entirely, which means they are bad at concealing their magical presence, or the amount of their power is too great to conceal properly. He executes a series of wand movements, whispering a powerful, “Finite Incantatem,” and, “Homenum Revelio.”

He swallows his agitation. The area surrounding him stays the same. Where? Where? _Where?_ The question beats his skull with each repetition. They were not behind him, nor were they in front of him. He is the only one, standing in the middle of the alley. A second later, however, he realizes that he made a foolish mistake. He neglected to check one more place.

Above.

Tom hears a sound that resembles the one when light bulbs go off.

Tom dashes towards the exit at sensing the hostile presence swooping down upon him. Slowing his speed, he turns his head back, curiosity winning over self-preservation, and the large gray specter that comes into his vision resolves into a tall hooded individual, who uses an unfamiliar charm that stages an elaborate illusion of translucency onto their body.

His attacker does lightning fast wand movements his eyes are not trained enough to decipher.

The strong shield he deftly conjures fails to protect him and—

Green. Green. _Green_. That is all he sees.

 

**1.10 Anew**

Every little thing seems distorted. Blurred. It takes time for his sight to clear; and when it does, he recognizes his present location. The Hospital Wing. What is he doing here though? What is the last thing he remembers? His mind reboots, activates, and starts to operate at an acceptable rate.

Green.

“Ah!” Tom inhales sharply, automatically lifting a hand to his chest. He fists the front of his white shirt. He is both startled and disturbed by what he has remembered. The Killing Curse? No. Impossible. He is here, _alive, breathing, thinking_. Yes, Alive.

He reconstructs, piece by piece, his opaque recollection of the incident, becoming engrossed with a specific fragment: that last incredible instant in which he is struck by a crackling virid ray composed of concentrated heat. It penetrated his chest, turning into a discharge of pure magical power that expanded itself within his body, traveling hastily across his organism, diving into his cells, roasting his nerves, halting the mad rhythm of his heart. The mysterious spell emptied a mass of energy into an unknown space deep inside him and then…came inescapable darkness.

He is yanked out of the grasp of his memories by a female voice.

“Mr. Riddle! You’ve awaken at last! Would you like some water?” The matron, a plump middle aged woman with a kind mien, enters the Hospital Wing. Tom acknowledges the new presence in the room by uttering a raspy reply, “Yes, please, thank you.” Her offer makes the uncomfortable dryness in his mouth hard to ignore.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Riddle?” Her question comes out soft. She conjures a goblet with a kind of water that radiates a gentle silvery shimmer. She hands him the goblet, Tom takes it, raises the brim to his lips and the effect is instantaneous as the liquid goes past his lips. His mouth and his throat are whelmed with a pleasant cool sensation. Tom drains the goblet feeling hydrated and refreshed.

Tom looks into her eyes, gives her a reassuring smile and answers with confidence, “I’m feeling all right.” His power works immediately, the lines of worry over the woman’s forehead smooth out.

“We were afraid there could be something terribly wrong with you.” The nurse comments. “We even called healers from St Mungo’s to see you. We made thorough examinations on you that indicated you were suffering from severe magical exhaustion. You wouldn’t wake up even after we treated you and your condition stabilized! Your case bewildered us!”

Tom listens to her with rapt attention. He decides to suck out all the information he can before he convinces her of releasing him early. “Madam, could you tell me what occurred and how it was that I came here? You see, as I just woke up my memory right now is quite hazy.”

“Oh! Of course!” A look of sympathy passes by her features. “You were found unconscious a week ago in an alley at Hogsmeade. You were brought here by a Gryffindor student who happened to find you.”

He slept for an entire week. What exactly his attacker did to him? If the matron, and experienced Healers could not find traces of anything magical, then he will have to look into this matter by himself with discretion. On the other hand, there is a Gryffindor student Tom is unfamiliar with in the equation. Could he know something? Or have seen something?

Find him. Tom wants to go out and find him. Tom deems it a top priority.

“Mr. Riddle?”

There is an intense gleam amidst his light blue eyes. His voice, capable of holding anyone who hears it captive, sounds deep and warm. His power—his _magic_ —pulsates. “If it weren’t for the kindness of that one student I daren’t think what would’ve befallen me. I wish to thank him properly for what he did for me. Do you know anything that could help me, Madam?”

“Mr. Riddle, how gracious of you!” The nurse exclaims with a delighted smile. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be much useful. I was preoccupied with treating you at the time and I don’t have all the details as they weren’t disclosed to me.” She looks apologetic at this, but continues, “If I’m not mistaken he’s a new student, a fifth year like you. That’s rare, I tell you, must be the war.” She says in a slightly nervous manner, clasping her hands upon her navel. “He left before I could get his surname, though he mentioned his name was Harry.”

_Harry?_

The magic that runs in his veins is restless. Tom swears he will get to the heart of whatever this may be.


	2. II

**II**  


**2.1 Seeking**

Desperation.

Green eyes follow each sequence of archaic words upon yellowed and brittle pages with desperation. Accustomed to obsolete prose, his brain supplies him with nearly automatic translations and definitions of long forgotten terminologies, while extracting interpretations from texts written by the experienced hand of deceased wizards. There must be something he, they, have overlooked in their frantic search for an answer.

That is why he has been secluded here, in a cluttered dusty room, penned in by swaying piles of ‘borrowed’ books on a carpet of long sheets of parchment detailing preposterous theories and schemes.

The book emits a low whine at being closed rather harshly.  The young man feels jaded, but he does not want to stop, if he does, his persistent dubiety will hinder him.

Walking past the collection of opened books around him, he now faces a mind-numbing myriad of diagrams, world maps, and annotations pinned on the walls. He sighs. The Light against the Dark. A never-ending battle. Survival, and the need of an end to a sustained and destructive struggle, has compelled him to devour the contents of almost every text they have found or come upon. Though he is sure he has compensated for all the studying he should have done at school, he is still missing something; an elusive vital piece of information which will move him forward. It is there, he just cannot see it.

Time passes, and somnolence steals what is left of his zeal. So he dozes, huddled in a corner against a peeling wallpaper, wishing wholeheartedly for an answer, a solution, that is yet to appear. But then, a sudden chill goes down his spine, and his eyes flutter open. They land on a medieval illustration on which two shadowy shapes, and a mirror in between them, are shown. The passage below sparks an indescribable emotion in him. A feeling he normally associates with success is brewing hope in his hardened heart.

He lifts the book from the floor with shaking hands. It is small, old, and harmless. He has leafed through it before; he dismissed it at finding only philosophical themes in its pages.

He focuses on sentences he suddenly needs to read aloud. They sounded like a hint.

“What are we if not a reflection of each other.  
  
We are the same. We are one. We hold the balance.

We come from the source that bestows life and death.

We are the light shining down upon you. Or we are the darkness embracing the unseen.

Find us, if you will.

We are everywhere.

We are within you.”

   
**2.2 Awakening**

What has been done is irreversible.

It is lodged in his being. An imported piece which fits seamlessly into the erstwhile incomplete design.

Opalescent roots are wiggling deep into spiritual soil. Golden seeds are being disseminated far and wide. It is fortunate that the environment cooperates, because soon, snowy drops of water are falling down from a gloomy sky.

There is blue lightning overhead, slicing black clouds. The wind is singing, fracturing the deadened earth. It is restoring itself. This barren land. It is awakening.  


  **2.3 Deceiving**

“Tom, I’m pleased to say ‘welcome back!’” His Head of House cries with gladness. “You gave us quite a scare, after all.” The portly man chuckles. He spins around, and saunters towards a cabinet. He opens it to grab a bottle which had a lilac liquid swirling inside. “Now you’ve recovered, it is only appropriate that we discuss what could have brought about such an ailment. Magical exhaustion can be deathly, it should not be treated lightly. But that doesn’t mean we cannot enjoy a good refreshment first, don’t you agree?”   

Professor Slughorn fills two goblets, and with the assistance of his wand, one of them is directed towards Tom’s hand. The boy takes a polite sip of the infusion, the lemony aftertaste on his tongue is not at all unpleasant. But it does not take a connoisseur to know that it will tire the palate if drunk in great quantities. He filters out the apathy behind his smile, letting through affected appreciation . “Of course! This is delicious, by the way, what a fine taste you have sir!”   

The man produces throaty chuckles as he rubs his ever bloated belly. His delight is nearly palpable. “Oh, Tom! Thank you!” He preens himself, using insincere flattery as fuel. He sobers up to speak again. “Well, this is lovely, but I sent for you to inquire about your health. You had us all worried, even the Headmaster expressed his concern.”

The boy’s growing displeasure slowly leaks out through his magic, the only sign of this actually happening is the simmering liquid in his goblet.

“I really am sorry. But isn’t the concern unfounded? As you can see, I’ve regained my strength. Madam Pia has made a tremendous job. I feel revitalized!” Tom emphasizes his words by spreading his arms, displaying his slender figure. Tom inclines his head a bit, the corners of his lips going up in a boyish way. Then, he speaks, lowering his voice like people do when wanting to share a secret. “Am I right in thinking that this beverage is a personal concoction? A revision of the soothing draught? I’m no expert but the lemon balm, I believe, is a great addition, your variant is much more flavorful than the original recipe.”

“Very good! Very good!” The professor claps. “Astute aren’t you?” The professor says, and his laughter pervades the office once again.   
  
Tom smiles as he patiently waits for the blare of the man’s mirth to subside to say, “Professor, as we all know, we have the O.W.Ls this year, and I confess that I’ve been worried about them. I want to excel, sir, so very much that—” Light blue eyes look away; embarrassment can be gleaned from his hunched posture.  “I might have exhausted myself trying to cover everything at once.”

Professor Slughorn gulps down what is left of the drink, and places his empty goblet on his desk. “I considered that’d be the case! I told the Headmaster so! Such a dedicated boy like you, with heavy expectations on your youthful shoulders, this was bound to happen! Tom, I feel responsible, I should have foreseen it.” The man puts a hand above his heart, his voice and his face solemn.

Tom views his superficial understanding as an insult.

“Oh, no! Please don’t, sir! You are too kind but I’ve learnt my lesson. It won’t happen again, I promise.” Tom captures the man’s gaze, communicating unfelt gratefulness and simulated earnestness. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

A surge of sentiment has the man’s eyes sparkling. He absolutely wants that declaration to be truthful. Since he is very well acquainted with a common brand of solitude which has monotony as a faithful ingredient, he does not have anyone who esteems him enough that can say those words with a speck of truth in them. The portly man cannot discern where the lie begins and where it ends, so he holds the feeble connection he has to this outstanding student like a lifeline.

His eagerness to confer a worthy frame to such an spectacular masterpiece blunts his perception. He is too taken with the unbelievable beauty of this boy’s perfection that he does not know he has become easy prey to the silver voice of the extraordinary boy, as is evidenced by the appeased and contented smile etched on his round face.

By the time Tom leaves, residues of a peculiar substance are on the bottom of his goblet. It is a thick, boiling, poisonous lilac magma that disappears at the absence of his magical touch.

**2.4 Adjustment**

‘What is it?’

Tom touches his chest.

‘What did he do to me? What is the purpose? Why did he target me?’

Tom can feel it breaking, jumbling, and rearranging everything in its path. Even though his magic seems unchanged, and his health stable according to the head nurse, there is no doubt that something is unfurling beneath his skin; and it vexes him that he does not have the knowledge to end its progress.

‘Who is _he_?’  

He, who overpowered him. He, who performed a most bizarre type of magic that books have been unable to elucidate so far.

   
**2.5 Beginning**

In such a still night, the unexpected blows against the wood sound like cannons being fired during wartime. There is uncertainty in the young woman as she stares at the door as though it is the prelude of a frightful folk tale. She can picture it as she goes downstairs, step by step, one hesitant foot before the other. Her wild imagination reproduces her grandmother’s wavering voice: “child, child, do not open the door at nighttide, seal your ears and cover your sight and rise at first light, let the creatures that roam at night return whither they came. Child, If you do otherwise….”

In the lonely darkness, she does not have the courage any longer to keep the kerosene hand lamp alight. She creeps up on a window, drawing back the thick curtain a little bit with a single cold finger. A fearful peek at the front yard lets her know who—what—is making this terrible and demanding clamor.  

Her lips part to give out a stunned loud gasp. The moon illuminates weakly what her eyes encounter.

A cool draft brushing her nape petrifies her.

“Martha?” A rough voice murmures behind her.

Martha turns on her heel, her back colliding with the window. She drops the lamp in her hands. She flinches when glass hits the floor and shatters completely. The scream that issues from the girl who spoke earlier worsens the situation. Martha feels her heart will smash her ribcage with its violent pumplike motions.

“You! Silence!” She snaps at the visibly frightened girl.

The insistent knocking paused, and vehement pleas for help take their place. The young woman and the girl contemplated each other.

“What do we do?” The girl asks.

Martha is always reluctant to deal with the horrors the persons at the other side of the door usually bring with them. She should be used to it by now since she manages an orphanage—an endless source of melancholy, of tragedy and misery—but she is not. The itch to have mouthfuls of a strong enough homebrew that will help her sleep the night away is there, tempting her; however, it is momentarily quelled with astounding willpower.

What she saw outside reminds her that she is a young woman with a duty. So she resolves to square up to this unfortunate circumstance, and barks, “be useful and assist me! This will be a long, long night, girl.”  
  
Martha gestures her to follow.  The girl does so despite her lingering fear. They sidestep the glinting bits of glass and the puddle of oil over the floor of the entrance hall, and walk until they both are behind the door. Martha removes the bolt, and then produces a key from the front pocket of her nightgown. She inserts it into the keyhole, turns the key, grasps the rusted handle, and opens the door.   
  
They see a woman. An ailing and pregnant woman.

A storm passed a while ago, and it is evident she could not find a temporary shelter. She is drenched, the rags she wears are adhered to her slight skeletal body. Martha wonders how she has been surviving in destitution while carrying a child.  She also wonders fruitlessly what distressing things she has lived, and under what conditions her pregnancy may have occurred. At the same time, Martha decides it is better if she never knows.   
  
“Please,” she croaks, “please, my son—!” The next thing she wants to say is lost amid the uncontrollable hacking coughs that comes out from her white cracked lips. The act of speaking seems to be too great an effort for her. Her body quakes, making the deathly pallor her unsightly face shows more prominent. Martha hurries forward, carefully putting an arm around bony shoulders, afraid of hurting her as she guides her towards the hall. She wrinkles her nose at the pungent odour clinging to her frail form.

As Martha takes the houseless woman to the nearest room, the girl, her newly appointed assistant, closes the door.   
  
Several hours later, Martha thinks they delivered a stillborn baby, as she did not hear the cries that signify life. Wrapped in a blanket in the arms of her assistant, the baby is alive and well as far as she can tell. However, Martha notes the unnatural expression on the baby’s face has not changed. They welcomed a silent baby into the world, a baby boy who stared at them with serene sky blue eyes.   
  
Martha is unsettled by this, but the amazement she feels towards the woman upon the bed overshadows that oddity. The woman birthed such a beautiful baby with admirable vigor, surmounting her delicate state if only for the duration of childbirth.  And so, it is lamentable that her toil drained thereupon what little vitality she may have saved up for the first reunion with her son.  
  
  
**2.6 Reflection**

The man is perfect.

Everything she is not.

The girl hides behind a large tree trunk, her fists crunching a clump of dead leaves, her blackened nails burrowing into the ground. The highborn man is with another woman. He desires her. The girl knows. The woman he is kissing is a temptress with her short wavy hair, fair complexion, and curvaceous body. The woman is perfect too.

Everything this little girl is not.

She sees her giggling at his wandering hands and impatient lips. She knows what is to happen next. She has seen it many times already. There is nothing new to commit to memory. She gets up on wobbly legs, and scuttles away from them as silently as she can. She is loath to go back to the wretched pit that is her home, but a longed-for alternative has been missing in her life for as long as she can remember.

She jumps onto an empty crate below a small window. She pushes the window open, and enters the room she shares with her older brother by sitting on the sill, and swinging her legs to the other side. She is relieved at seeing that his brother is not around and sits on her bed, which is the cot closest to the window.

She retrieves a round broken mirror with an ornate golden frame that she hid beneath a loose wooden floorboard. It is an expensive object she will never be able to afford. She found it amidst scraps of rotten food in a garbage can a month ago at the village.

She inspects her split reflection. She compares the appearance of the women he has had with what she sees in the mirror. Moisture gathers in the corners of her eyes. Sunken filthy cheeks, misaligned bulging eyes, long dull hair, dry ashen skin. She strips, the torn grimy blue dress she likes to wear falls around her feet. The girl drags a hand down her nude body, touching nonexistent breasts, tracing protruding ribs and hipbones, brushing old scars and fading bruises.

The girl is stubborn, she is aware she is going to get hurt, but even so, she proceeds. Perhaps she has become addicted to the pain, or perhaps she feels she deserves it, whichever the reason, the girl steels herself to confront her replica.

Her attempts to ward off the hereditary torment that haunts her day after day are in vain, for she is overcome by the sadistic imaginings invading her fragile mind. They feed the brutality with which she wants to rip up her skin, to gouge out her eyes, to hew her face, to root up her hair, to grind her bones.

She wants to be made anew. She wants to pull her body apart and reassemble it properly. She wants to be more than a miscreation.

‘Tom. Tom. Tom.’ She chants in her head, her thoughts ever revolving around his name and his image. “This isn’t what you like. This isn’t what anyone would like. It isn’t. It just isn’t.” She mumbles, never forgetting the disgusted stares the villagers send her.

She wants him to be with him. She wants to be like _her_. Like that woman, and the women that he embraced before her. But the differences are cruel and clear. The flood of tears is unstoppable, as she flagellates herself with feelings of hatred and repulsion towards her unchangeable reflection.   

She is still awake late into the night, even after her anguish has quieted and her face has dried. She recalls there is something that she has that they, the elegant ladies he fancies, do not have. The sudden realization uplifts her despondent soul to an unimaginable height.

“Magic.” She whispers in wonder.  
  
  
**2.7 Against**

The Hat spits out two slips of parchment into Professor Merrythought’s hands. She frowns, and glances at the Hat in confusion. Up until now, the Hat has been properly pairing off Slytherin and Gryffindor students for today’s duelling practice. Every student wrote their names on a slip of parchment, and put it in the Hat’s mouth. Then, the Hat ingested the leftover magic in the parchment to make a potential magical match.  

Though Galatea has reservations about the Hat’s selection, she calls the names which are written on the parchment. “From Slytherin, Tom Riddle. From Gryffindor, Harry Evans.” As the aforementioned boys step on the platform, she hopes Tom will not be too rough on the other boy. Harry is a good student, Galatea knows, but he is an average one, and certainly not Tom’s match. In fact, she does not believe there exists someone who can be a match for him yet.  
  
Galatea thinks that Harry, with his hair and clothes in permanent disarray is a sharp contrast to Tom, who is the epitome of neatness. She is amused at the thought, and nods in approval as she watches the boys following correctly the code of conduct for formal duelling.

She surmises that Tom is not in a mood to give his opponent an opportunity, as he raises his wand to end the duel with a swift and well-aimed Stunning Spell. It is a pleasant surprise when Harry’s response is instantaneous: his wand produces an impressive Shield. The red light hits the transparent Shield, and soon, it fizzles and expires.   
  
Galatea glances at the Hat once more; she can swear that it is grinning with something close to _smugness_. The sight perturbs her a little, so her eyes go back to the ongoing duel. Both opponents seem unfazed. A minute or two pass in which they look into each other’s eyes. Then, in an instant, Tom raises his wand again, and says, “Glacius.”

“Accio chair.” Harry takes immediate action, and jumps out of harm’s way. His knees are flexed as his feet slide on the polished floor of the platform, halting just in time at its edge.  The teal blue light ices up the legs of the summoned chair in his stead. Thereafter, an approaching sphere of indigo light threatens him with its great size and speed. Muttering, “Fumo,” Harry draws a canary yellow spiral in the air with his wand. At the last second, he manages to dodge the Freezing Charm, and is successful at concealing his body within the thick screen of pale smoke he created.

Tom wastes no time. He extends his arm, and quickly delineates a perfect set of concentric circles at chest level. “Ventisca!” On the tip of his wand, a slate gray light grows steadily, until a merciless whirlwind bursts forth, removing the cloud of smoke with ease. Now, the platform is clean, and absolutely empty.   
  
Tom scowls, and Galatea is quite baffled. Tom has not moved from his initial position since the duel began, but this is the first time she has seen such an expression on his face. And, it is also unexpected that Harry is proving to be an excellent rival. No one has lasted more than half a minute against Tom Riddle before.

The chirrup of ruby red sparks speeding towards Tom alert him of the danger he is in. It is his turn to cast a “Protego.” But he is forced to continually duck and block, while he glides to different locations due to a series of powerful variations of the previous Knockback Jinx, which are effectively directed at him by an unseen enemy. “Not again.” He grumbles. Tom makes a single wide slash and shouts, “Desvelare!” His magic answers, and expansive platinum waves travel across the platform in every direction. Harry’s position is revealed, and his body is thrown back by the force of the spell.

Tom’s smile seems triumphant as he points his wand to shout:

“Expelliarmus!”

Simultaneously, Harry stands up with determination, and fires back:

“Expelliarmus!”

The jets of light expelled from their wands soar over the platform, illuminating the faces of gawking spectators as they finally converge in one point. Artic blue and scarlet red battle for victory, but neither gives in. A violet-colored mass of raw magic forms at the middle, and it begins to expand at a worrying rate. The classroom shakes, exclaims of fear and uncertainty are uttered by classmates clad in green and red. Galatea whispers a long string of words while her wand arm moves incessantly; Galatea is able to raise coral pink rectangular barriers to encase the students.

Fortunately, the subsequent explosion is a minor one, because their wands cannot withstand the potency of their magical connection any longer, so they act accordingly and terminate their link. The abruptness with which this is done drive Tom and Harry out of the platform and onto the floor.  Galatea uses a Cushioning Charm to protect them from the impact.

“Merlin...this is...a draw, I suppose.” She is flabbergasted; her eyebrows almost reach her hairline as she surveys the aftermath of their duel. Tom and Harry are lying unconscious upon their respective pile of pillows, and between them, is a more or less deep crater fuming hot tendrils of golden smoke where the duelling platform used to be.    
  
**2.8 Lured**

“Duel me.” The short sentence is worded like an order but sounds like a request. Tom dislikes it. It is too late to take back what he said as well as the way he said it. So it is a good thing that no one is witness to their exchange. At this time of the night, perhaps Ogg may be the only one awake wandering about on the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest.

Is it really a coincidence that he would stumble upon Evans, Harry Evans from Gryffindor, in the Restricted Section of the Library? Tom is secretly taken aback at this. He is there though, in front of him, standing between tall and dusty shelves looking unafraid, as if unexpected meetings with a Prefect at an unseemly hour is something inconsequential.

“Yes or no.” Coincidence or not, Tom cannot pass up this chance.

Behind round lenses, vibrant green eyes gaze at him.

All the questions Tom has roaming in his mind concerning the Gryffindor seem to lose their importance against Evans’ bold scrutiny.   
  
“Again? Right now?” Harry asks. His face unreadable.

Tom dislikes that too. He has the feeling that this one boy, Harry Evans, can _see_ beyond the surface. But what, exactly, does he see? Tom is unable to suppress his curiosity.

Tom walks up to the other boy, and repeats, “Yes or no.” Tonight, he is indifferent to the curtness of his speech. And as he waits for an answer, he is also unaware of the bare intensity floating on the light blue of his eyes.

“Yes.”

Harry Evans accepts the challenge; and Tom stops caring about the flakes of his carefully crafted mask slowly falling to the ground. Tom turns around, his steps leading them both towards the Seventh Floor. The two boys exited the library, walking side by side as they skillfully blend themselves into the background. They do not know they share the same burgeoning excitement that is flowing together with their blood.  
  
  
**2.9 Understanding**

He has been afraid so many times by now that fear is a feeling he knows intimately. He knows as well that depending on the person cowardice may be accompanied by fear, and only after the fear has waned, and a cowardly act has been done, fires of bitter regret start to consume one’s soul.

It shames him that he knows this so very well. He knows it is natural to feel frightened if our life, and the lives of the people we love, are endangered. So, in the midst of trees and lush vegetation, and covered by the shade of a tree’s outspread crown, not even the moon can espy the way in which his constant fear squirms out of his grip and runs ahead of him.

Right now, Ronald Weasley is afraid of many things, and for once, none of those things have anything to do with a certain species of arachnids. He is afraid, he cannot help it, and this infuriates him. Because this fear he has towards his best friend has stayed for too long. Ron fears him, and he fears for his best friend’s wellbeing too.

Compassionate, brave, and kind, and all the other good qualities Ron wishes he had— _How_ —how is it possible that someone good like Harry can understand _His_ rotten thoughts, _His_ wicked desires, _His_ abhorrent nature. It is an sickening notion, is it not? Yet it is true. _Our_ connection scares you. This is the truth you refuse to grasp. But you better think about how your best friends are spending their time in that big and warm tent while you are out here freezing your dastardly bones. Or _**s**_ hall I show you what you **_s_** hould fear in the meantime? Do you want to know what real fear i _ **s**_?

No! Stop it. Would you stop it? Stop it. What are you doing? Yes, you, you fucking idiot. What are you doing? What would she think if she saw you like this!? She, intelligent, forgiving, and beautiful. You promised you wouldn’t do this again didn’t you? She trusts you! Snap-snap—snap out of it! She can help you! Go. Go!

He needs to go, his lower lip quivers, his eyes are about to spill tears, his head is too heavy, he is cold inside, terribly cold, he must go, but what can he say when he lacks the courage to vocalize how much it truly terrifies him—Harry’s empathy with _Him_.

Upon his chest, a locket glows.  
  
  
**2.10 Pastime**

Their figures are blurs. Dazzling lights follow them. Attack and defend, defend and counterattack; run and twirl and aim and hide. They design strategies and destroy patterns. There are no rules, no restrictions. They are free to use whatever they want. The colors that define a part of their personalities are discarded with their robes. Hours go by, and they rest, and they heal, and they recontinue.   
  
They are inexhaustible. They estimate their magical strength, and compare their repertoire of spells while pushing themselves past their limits. They unconsciously transcend the mental confines that separate them into two different individuals. They fuse. They become one. And as one they struggle to breathe, to regain clarity, as their hearts thump wildly in unison, and their muscles stretch and burn in their bodies.

They feel there is no end, only a sense of eternity as they move with confidence and grace like seasoned dancers, light and dark magic continually clashing in the air; they can only see and feel the sentient and fervent magic within them, around them, enveloping them, building universes, altering perceptions, and shaking perspectives.

They do not notice the moment in which the sporadic pastime they created turned into a most enthralling ritual.

 


	3. III

**III**  
  
**3.1 Spellbound**  
  
The air wafts a fragrance coming from the other side of the valley; the sweet, delicate scent beckons, and the shy idea of discovering its source blossoms into an urgent mission, which induces the rider to decidedly veer off the familiar path that leads towards home. He ignores the setting sun as he tightens his grip on the reins. The rider spurs his handsome white horse, and advances to what he assumes must be the right direction.  
  
The young man and his horse traverse the grassland, and penetrate the woods at a light trot. As he advances, avoiding patches of brambles, overgrown shrubs and dead thick branches, the wonderful fragrance becomes increasingly stronger, and a strange lightheadedness comes over him as if he imbibed more than what is proper at the village’s tavern. His inner compass malfunctions, and before long, he is lost within the innards of an unexplored place.  
  
It is his proficiency in the art of horse riding that prevents an ungraceful and painful fall to the ground. He looks around, disoriented, and halts his horse. Dismounting is a difficult task as his mind freely swims in a pool of dizziness; and even though he is now safe and unharmed with both feet on the earth, he teeters on an imaginary rope until his fingertips touch the coarse bark of a short, gaunt, and sad looking tree.  
  
The tree is kind, and lovingly embraces him as he reclines against it. He inhales and the mysterious fragrance that has him spellbound is near him, so near in fact, that it might be under his nose. A satisfied sigh escapes him. A liquid that feels like cool water moistens his dry lips.  
  
“Let me help you. _D_ _rink_. This is what you need.”  
  
The sounds caressing his ears are harmony in itself. The most brilliant musical composition pales before the divine euphony of this voice. Surely, an angel from heaven must have descended to guide him with good grace. A rivulet of liquified bliss flows into his mouth; and the rider is insatiable as he gulps down the glorious nectar the angel is giving him.  
  
“Beautiful….” He whispers.  
  
‘Where has she been all this time?’  
  
The confusion is gone, he knows who he is, where he is, and why he came here. He can see clearly, and he is in awe of the captivating appearance of his savior. Her arms are coiled around his waist, her dark gaze blazing adoration. He knows nothing about her, but that is never an obstacle. He will not let go of this benevolent beauty, the fountain of the intoxicating fragrance; because it is, he realizes, the perfume emanating from her smooth, milky skin.  
  
“You have saved me, and for that I thank you. May I know your name?” He says.  
  
His deep voice flusters her. “M-Merope,” she stutters, a lovely blush growing in her cheeks.  
  
“ _Merope_.” Her name has a delicious taste. “Merope,” he brushes away strands of lustrous ebony-black hair from her angelic face, and introduces himself, “My name is Tom Riddle, and I’m wondering if you are a Nymph who has also lost her way.”

  
  
**3.2 Duty**  
  
  
_Where are you, my Master?_  
  
Countless seasons has passed her by, and her master has not returned. She has been good. She has been patient. And after all this time, the excruciating hunger she has learned to resist has been heightening without control. ‘I shall return, when the appropriate time comes for me to do so,’ Master said. Master is not here with me. It is cold in here, Master. Get me out! Want the sun!  
  
_Master?_  
  
Silence. There is no one with the ability to hear her calling, to let her out, to soothe her pain. In her bleak lair, she tries to remain awake for her master, but she believes it is best if she immerses herself into a deep slumber, being awake reminds her she has forgotten the reason her master left her and this place behind.  
  
_Master forgot me?_  
  
_Yes._  
  
No. Master will not come back because—Master is dead? She begins to slither through dark winding tunnels in her anxiety. Humans have a short life span, have they not? Therefore, she thinks her master has not deserted her, her master is—under the earth! She pauses to mourn. Dispirited by this terrible revelation she decides to fall asleep right where she is, disregarding the iciness of the surface on which her colossal body rests. She hopes she can rejoin her master if she sleeps forevermore, for sleep is the only thing she can use to forget her name, her human, and her duty.

  
  
….

  
  
_Power._  
  
The Chamber groans, yawns and stretches itself out.  
  
Tendrils of exceptional magical power infiltrate Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets. It is a particular kind of power whose arrival fans the stagnant olden Magic coating every inch of the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and any artifact and hidden compartment connected to the main structure.  
  
Magic rises into the air and floats in the form of motes of dust. Imperceptible pinpoints of magical energy, iridescent and harmless, spread over the Chamber, infusing an advanced sentience into its massive framework.This power has a signature the Chamber itself recognizes. It senses that this fresh current of Magic is compatible; thus, it is absorbed readily. As a consequence, the mythical beast which slumbers in its bowels is reanimated, and arises to meet a master she thought was dead.  
  
“ _Marvelous creature_ ,” he breathes at seeing her; his words encased in a gentle, sweet sibilance.  
  
Her master looks younger, but he is still powerful and has a familiar scent. Has he come back from the dead? Has he been reborn? It is possible. Her master has always been a remarkable human.  
  
“ _Finally...I’ve find you, you and your resting place,_ ” he says, his baritone voice, amplified by sheer elation, reverberates through the Chamber. “ _You and I will continue Salazar Slytherin’s greatest labor!_ ”  
  
“ _It is the purpose of our lives. My life. It is what he, my ancestor, would have wanted, wouldn’t he?_ ” His pale blue eyes shine so bright, they are blinding supernovas trapped in a human cage; his magic turns into a majestic tempest as he declares, “ _this is my Inheritance—what I’m here for—the meaning of my existence!_ ”  
  
“ _This is my place in this world._ ” He joins the palms of his hands as if in prayer, and slowly breathes in and out as he turns to face Slytherin’s statue, “ _your beliefs are my beliefs, your duty is my duty._ ” Tom Riddle has the strong need to asseverate his resolution, and so, he continues, “ _you are my sole ancestor, our primogenitor, my true Father, and in your honor, I will adopt your aspirations, and they will serve to erect the foundation of a new era!_ ”  
  
The Heir of Slytherin extends his arms, as though he is welcoming a dear but rarely seen family member, and his shadow grows and grows and becomes a ravenous void swallowing up all the light in the Chamber. Only his voice emerges from the absolute darkness to utter, “Rejoice Father! I won’t delay any longer, our rule will commence here, in Hogwarts, as you once envisioned.”  
  
The Chamber is awake and alert. Its master has returned.  
  
**3.3 Confession**  
  
“I’m Slytherin’s Heir.”  
  
Tom is not sure what is more perplexing, the impulse which let loose his previous statement or the lack of patent surprise on Harry’s face. Tom cannot decide which is worst.  
  
“Why did you stop?” Harry asks, voice slightly husky and eyes firmly closed as he regulates the wild rhythm of his breathing.  
  
Tom frowns. “You believe me?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I believe you’re the real one? It makes no sense if you, of all people, were to kid about that at this point.”  
  
Small spheres casting a soft amber light are suspended overhead. They bathe Harry’s lean figure, a set of languid limbs sprawled on the wreckage that was a battle arena three-odd hours ago. Harry’s breathing, Tom notices, is now such a slow, lazy tide one would presume that life has been drained from him.  
  
Tom chooses not to reply. They seldom converse, when it happens though, Harry speaks his mind, unafraid and with conviction, and at times, using bold words tinged with impertinent tones. In those transient interludes, Tom peeks, through the gaps in Harry’s shield, at the countenance of someone else; someone better, stronger, resourceful, and infinitely resolute.  
  
Someone who cannot be merely a student, for an ordinary student would have nothing to hide. Indeed, sometimes Tom fancies Harry dressed in emerald green and silvery white. Tom thinks the colors fit him in some ways red and gold never will.  
  
Tom wishes to see, the way Tom is certain Harry sees him. Tom wants to hear him speak. There is only silence, however, underlining a precious sense of tranquility. A deceptively simple thing which is a must when he reads, and reading is the activity which fills his days and nights, so it is strange and rather confusing to have the feeling of wanting to disrupt this stillness that comes close to what he is accustomed to when he loses himself between the pages of a book.  
  
“I’d heard rumors….” Harry begins.  
  
The aggravating stillness is broken. A tiny wave of relief quells the disquiet whose existence Tom is unaware of until it disappeared.  
  
“About Dippet breaking under the pressure and considering to close the school.” He unveils his green eyes to fix them on Tom; the vibrancy swirling there makes them almost hypnotizing. Overwhelming is the force behind those eyes. “Is that why you put a stop to it?”  
  
Tom forges an imperfect mask of impassivity, though it walls off any unwanted emotion that may surge to alter his features effectively, there are crevices which, if he is not careful, might deepen enough to cause irreparable damage. He cannot mute the unmistakable sound of missiles being launched; and so, it is too late to modify the trajectory of the one that is flying straight to the bullseye glued to his chest.  
  
'How? He can’t possibly comprehend why I—'  
  
“I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I think I—I’m getting attached to this place.” Harry murmurs.  
  
His voice is everywhere and nowhere at once. His voice is the sound of a calm and quiet stream. It drowns all the noise in his agitated mind.  
  
“I’ve started to believe it has some sort of magic that irreversibly ties you to a secret something the minute you step into the castle; and that something captivates you, welcomes you, heals you, gives you whatever it is you need the most.”  
  
Tom sees sincerity. He also catches a glimpse of the person hiding behind the shield. A person intriguing him in a way which persuades Tom to prolong this interaction, and prompts him to collect the unbound pieces of information toppling over the brim of the shield. “You seem indifferent about what I did.”  
  
An cold edge seeps into Harry’s next sentence, “don’t misunderstand. I don’t agree with what you did, but I’ll not cheapen this conversation by preaching about principles. If I’m to be honest, what’s important to me is that no one ended up falsely accused...or dead. So I’m glad it’s over.”  
  
“Yet you’re still here, talking to the perpetrator.” Tom rises from the ground to sit on a previously transfigured chair. The one item which looks out of place with its elegant design. “It hasn’t repaired itself,” Tom comments, as he eyes the rows of empty seats surrounding them. “Thus I suppose that our wishes are, perhaps, similar if not the same. Say, Harry, do you like the destruction we have caused together?”  
  
“It’s not that I like it but it’d be more accurate to say that I’m used to it.” Just like you, goes unsaid. Harry rises too, pockets his wand, and turns to look at Tom, who was, tonight, a bloodthirsty gladiator. He picks up his sweater, his tie and his robe, which were a huddle of creased fabric tucked in a corner behind a slim pillar broken in half.  
  
Before exiting the arena ravaged by magic, Harry pivots on his feet to hold Tom’s gaze once again, and recites suddenly, “‘It tastes like freedom...to relinquish the truths we usually guard so cautiously to someone we implicitly trust.’”  
  
Harry leaves. His offer, blunt and sincere, stays.  
  
Tom heaves a trembling sigh. The small spheres of light dye his sight forest green.  
  
His first instinct is to cause nothing but further destruction upon the ruins of _their_ ever-changing room. But it distracts him—the ongoing rebellion inside his chest.

  
  
  
**3.4 Partnership**  
  
Galatea has an irresistible academic curiosity towards them. She had been making plans for retirement, but after that duelling practice she found she could not leave just yet.  
  
Their ingeniousness, lying beneath every answer to a difficult question, and their competitiveness and creativity during each and every duel have rekindled the passion she has had for the subject since she was a first year student.  
  
The two boys sitting at the front are the sole reason why this whole affair was designed. She wonders with excitement what two equally talented boys will come up with. The long-term project she has assigned to her fifth year students created an opportunity to watch Tom and Harry’s bright minds at work.  
  
Because what are the chances of encountering two students with great potential in the same school and in the same year?  
  
Galatea thought it would be a minor inconvenience that both of them reside in Houses which have this nonsensical long-standing rivalry. However, they don’t seem to mind the disparity between the colors they wear and the connotations they tacitly carry.  
  
Perhaps, she dares to presume, they have constructed a middle ground to stand on, an example from which she is positive other students would benefit if they threw prejudices aside for a moment.  
  
She considers herself fortunate whenever she stops by the library to retrieve or return a book, and finds them working, side by side. The boys deeply engrossed in their discussions and debates, inhabiting an imagined enclosure in which they cooperate and contribute to fulfill one purpose.  
  
Other times, usually on sundays, when Galatea goes to collect some herbs at one of the greenhouses, she finds them out in the open, always at dawn, where the echoes of shouted incantations reach her, their shadows gliding gracefully upon the grass under one harmonious tune as the Sun emerges pouring golden light over them. It is then, when they halt to stare at each other. They engage in what appears to be a brief soundless talk before walking back to their dormitories.  
  
While she remains there, frozen, stricken with awe.

  
  
**3.5 Affinity**  
  
Tom did his best to question Harry about the incident in which he was involved at Hogsmeade. His carefully worded questions coupled with an affable demeanor have always been more than sufficient to obtain any sort of information. It was made clear though, that Harry knew nothing of true relevance about the matter.  
  
Putting that aside, it seemed pointless to keep talking to him and maintain a superficial association when, at first sight, he was only just another Gryffindor; and therein laid his mistake, as he would soon come to admit.  
  
Their performance in Defence Against The Dark Arts was certainly a memorable one. Tom would not be able to banish the timid thoughts entering his mind, thoughts which invited him to seek that boy, to test his unsuspected strength, to measure his abilities, to watch what he was capable of.  
  
But it came as a pleasant addition, Harry’s knowledge and impartiality on all sorts of subjects. Even though Harry’s profile was being constantly altered and renewed, adding characteristics and removing others, Tom’s mental portrayal was far from nearing its completion.  
  
Tom was never one to be easily discouraged, however, for he placed high in his list of priorities the need to unravel the threads that held Harry together.  
  
**3.6 Company**  
  
_Changes; gradually, and with subtlety, they occur in this manner. Oftentimes even perceptive people fail to notice them when they are on the receiving end of their mischief. But even if we detected them before they could come near us we still let our foolish and arrogant souls to fall into their trap nonetheless, assuming we will get out of them unscathed, unaltered._  
  
_Changes which look small and unassuming are especially dangerous given the limitless influence of their capriciousness.They conspire against us, they muffle their voices. They sedate us, put a veil on our eyes, and then, liberate us to wander through the dark._  
  
_It is a very curious thing, the effect in which they put us under after they slip away. They never go for long though, they return to us so the cycle can begin anew. They do not care if we stumble and hurt ourselves in the interim._  
  
The memory of having read this excerpt in some forgettable little book surged to the shore of his mind. Changes. Little imperceptible changes; they form a trigger for the few remarkable revolutions that come to pass in our lives.  
  
The beautiful silence they once had in between them had been dethroned. When did that happen? Tom could not pinpoint the exact moment. Long dialogues had crept into their duels, and Tom had been surprised to realize he did not mind, and apparently, neither did Harry. Both could keep a steady conversational flow which could carry any topic as Harry would not shy away from anything. It was...pleasant to have something like that. Something impossible to have in his own House with his fellow housemates.  
  
Harry listened, digested his arguments, threw his own counterarguments, and, was it only his wishful imagination but did Harry also understand?

Slowly, by degrees, a foul dead thing within him morphed into something resembling hope without his consent. Tom tried to kill it. He could not.  
  
It refused to wither and perish because in elusive, indefinite, segments of time, Tom started to crave his company.  
  
**3.7 Bond**  
  
Tom covets whatever it is Harry has inside that makes him who he is, Tom wants to steal it, to possess it, to dissect it. He must purge this absurd, inconvenient fixation from his musings.  
  
Tom’s mind ceases the rapid circulation of all thought processes as it registers the image of a very familiar figure through the window. Tom pushes the bottom sash up, and a warm, summery breeze rushes in, skimming over his face, and ruffling his dark hair. With his hands laying flat on the sill, and his head projecting out from the open window, he tries to discern the face of the stranger.  
  
The sunlight conceals with its brightness the identity of the visitor as they talk with one of the helpers. The person drops the hand it had up before his face as a sunscreen, and walks onward. Tom’s breath gets momentarily stuck in his throat. Harry is here. At the orphanage. Tom is always alone, in his room, so it is not necessary to smother his astoundment at Harry’s unexpected visit.  
  
‘What is he doing here? What could he possibly want?’ Tom thinks. Harry is the first visitor he has ever had. (In his mind, Professor Dumbledore’s visit over five years ago is intentionally ignored.)  
  
Tom exits his room, descends the stairs, and finds Harry stepping into the entrance hall. When he accepted Harry’s offer a few months ago after much deliberation, he was not expecting anything else but what was explicitly offered. Harry has become into a coffer that contains the little knowledge he has about himself, and what the passage of time will soon turn into his past. All the facts no one has to know. Perhaps it might be illogical, but that obscure feeling called intuition propelled him to make him his confidant.  
  
It felt like the right choice to make, for Harry truly _listens_ , and _understands_ ; reaffirming his existence just by being there alongside him, genuinely interested in what he has to say, locking in a place within him anything Tom gives him.  
  
“What—are you doing here?” Tom sounds a little bit breathless. He is, in this area, out of his depth. But Tom does not have to pretend he is not entirely uneasy by Harry’s presence. Harry probably knows he is. Somehow, he always does; in fact, it would be a crude insult to Harry’s keen perceptiveness to resort to affected stoicism.  
  
Harry shrugs. “What does it look like?” Then, he leans forward and gives Tom a lopsided, carefree smile. “I’m visiting a close friend.”

 

  
  
**3.8 Crux**  
  
Harry waits, waits, and waits.  
  
As he counts the minutes beneath the shade of a tree. There is nothing else to do. So he waits for Tom to come back to him. He can discern the Gaunt’s shack in the distance. ‘I should’ve insisted to go with him—No! If Tom was brave enough to do this on his own the first time, he’ll have to face them all over again, alone. It’s the way this is supposed to go.’ It is one of the objects of this long-range mission. To refrain from tampering with the original flow of Fate at every juncture.  
  
Even if he has been awaiting this day since his arrival to this time, Harry pledged that he would not directly interfere. An unbreakable stipulation. It is hard to stay still though, while an event, crucial for its fatality, may be unfolding as he waits. He is fidgeting. He is pacing about. His head is submerging itself in chaos. It feels as though Fate is mocking him, punishing him, retaliating against him for his defiance.  
  
It pains him, this waiting game. Harry quietly admits he has gotten too close to him. An unadvisable thing to do if failure meets him in the end. But he will do his utmost to persevere, for he made a gamble with Time, placing therein the future he swore to protect. It is a cosmic gamble, one that cannot be undone. Not even by Fate.  
  
Harry cannot cheat on this one test. He must not interfere in any regard. The chess board is empty. Harry, and all the omniscient magical forces supporting the wizarding world, came to a standstill. They are holding their breath as they wait for an outcome.  
  
Harry swallows back the anxiety trying to overcome him. Beads of perspiration hang from his brow, damp his nape, slide to his neck and go down his chest. The summer heat is particularly unbearable today.  
  
“I...I’ll have to trust him.” Harry mutters, watching how the dark took over the sky.

  
  
  
**3.9 Divergence**  
  
In Little Hangleton, the only thing arresting your attention is the dilapidated manor upon the hill. You look at it, slowly slipping into a trance as you trace with your eyes the winding paths the vines have carved into its tall walls, around its boarded windows, and upwards over its decayed roof.  
  
The adventurous streak you have whispers to your ear an idea about trespassing. But you cannot shake away the impression that the manor oozes something...otherworldly through the air around it, something demanding your express departure from the premises. So you wisely desist from pursuing the idea, and stay put. The unexpected chills slithering down your bones vanish.  
  
Even so, the bare eeriness of that moment, and your uncontrollable curiosity drives you to dig out the story of that old and abandoned place. You thought it would be hard, that nobody would be able to recall a decades old story, but your endeavor is completed soon, as you found a village elder who was forthcoming.  
  
And the tale you sought was recounted to you like this:  
  
The manor was the Riddles’ residence, a powerful, upper-class family. The patriarch's son, his precious son, dishonored the family by eloping with a girl of ill-repute. Months passed during which wicked, restless tongues depleted the novelty of the scandalous occurrence. But the boy created a stir in the village once more with his return to his family home, asking for forgiveness, claiming with vehemence that he had been bewitched.  
  
None of the villagers knew exactly what happened thereafter, but no one was the least bit surprised when their familial situation deteriorated. Because the sight of Tom Riddle Jr., the sole heir of the family, spending his father’s money on fine wine and women was a familiar one. Before long, Tom Riddle became indebted with the wrong sort of people.  
  
After their properties were taken, their fortune dwindled, and with their reputation sullied, Mary Riddle committed suicide by plunging a sewing needle into her neck. Her body was discovered by a maid in the drawing room. Bewildered about what she should do, the only remaining maid ran through the house, distraught and terrified, and retrieved Thomas Riddle from his study to show him the inert body of her mistress.  
  
Lord Riddle, who, in the recent years began to suffer from cardiac disease, died painfully from a heart attack upon seeing his deceased wife. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, outlived his parents, but their death took its toll on his mind. His growing insanity confined him to the manor, and with no one who would care to help him, one day Tom Riddle’s corpse was found by the family’s gardener in the drawing room, the same room in which his parents died.  
  
Since then, the once handsome Riddle manor has been the way it is now, in ruins and reeking of misfortune.

 

  
  
**3.10 Outcome**  
  
_A legacy of madness and misery. Is this really what my ancestor would have wanted to bestow upon his descendants? Betrayal may be one of the few intangible things I can comprehend with accuracy; my family betrayed me by forsaking me. Shouldn’t I have a father and a mother I can turn to like everybody else? Why don’t I have them? Why was I even born?_  
  
_My classmates, even the most incompetent and mediocre, unwittingly enjoy the privilege of having a parentage, however small and unremarkable. They have an identity, don’t they? They are aware of who they are. Nobles and plebeians are born into this world with a place where they will belong to. I don’t have that, nor will I ever have it. Since I am one of those who barely have a name with which to go by. All of it is so trite in its mundane unfairness that it fosters envy and resentment in me._  
  
_My wand, my wonderful wand, I aim it at my father. The indignation that trailed me out of the decrepit dwelling of the Gaunts, evolves into a sweet fury which pushes me toward a whirlwind of violent intent and cruel lucidity. “Magic is real.” I state. “Her magic was real. You refused to accept her because of this, didn’t you?”_  
  
_Magic, always with me—in me. Magic, anchoring me to an authentic home. Magic, gifting me with what I need. To deny its existence is blasphemy._  
  
Tom observes him. His eyes recording every detail. Was it loyalty what induced Harry to promise to wait for him? It is likely Harry has not even moved from the place whereon Tom decided to proceed on his own and leave Harry behind. Harry is there as he promised he would be. Tom blinks and Harry is still _there_ , sitting on a thick, protruding root, looking up at the moon, pale light outlining his frame as he patiently waits.  
  
The sight of him dilutes the red-hot venom racing through Tom’s bloodstream, just as it dims the phantasmagoria of memories rooting in his brain. Recently made memories, disordered and fractured and spinning, spinning as they insert themselves in his reality.  
  
“Let’s go. There’s nothing here that’s worth my time anymore.” Tom says, his sudden arrival startling Harry.  
  
“Back already?” Harry looks at Tom, eyes wide as they rove his face. Harry must have detected something new and unknown about him, because he asks, “what did you...do?”  
  
Tom can hear the faint echo of an unspoken question: are you ok? But Tom cannot suppress the terseness in his reply, “does it matter?”  
  
_“It was true. It was all true. That tramp told me she gave me something to love her. I wouldn’t ever want her though, even if she hadn’t deceived me! I said so and walked away!” My father, Tom Riddle, has disdain mixed with anger spilling out of his blue eyes and his shaking fists._  
  
_“Lies!” I shout, even though I can’t dismiss the plausibility in his retelling of the story. The person who could have told me what happened is dead._  
  
_I stare at him. It is nauseating, the undeniable similarity between our appearances. The genetic evidence is patent on our features. He is my biological father. I contain in my body part of his blood. But he does not want me. He abandoned me. I did not ask for any of this. Both sides, my mother's and my father's, are repugnant. I must extirpate it from myself, this valueless identity._  
  
“We’ve been friends for about three years, remember? It matters to me.” Harry declares; heading towards him with a purposeful gait. “Actually, it matters to me in a way I never thought it would. Tell me, Tom. Please.”  
  
_“You sired a cursed child with her, Tom, you should have told us, we could have gotten rid of it! We could have spared ourselves the humiliation this scandal will bring! What are we going to do now? The townspeople will find this out!”_  
  
_Your priorities describe your nature, my dear grandmother. A part of me believes I should not have come here. I desire to cause them pain. This isn't good, is it? I don't care. Have they experienced real pain? I can show them._  
  
‘Harry has earned it, hasn't he? He deserves to be apprised of my verdict. Very well.’  
  
“Instant death was too merciful an end for them. I will not stain my hands with their filthiness. But my magic will take from them what I should have had—what should have been mine. They will lose what they value the most. Whether they survive or succumb to their misery will be up to them.”  
  
_“You’re going to poison me too, aren’t you? You’re just as crazy as she was!” My father bellows._  
  
_“You fool! Do not lose your wits!” My grandfather cuts down his son’s spiking turmoil with a glance of extreme disapproval. He turns to me. “Money. Is it money what you want? We can reach an agreement if you consent to disappear and leave us be.”_  
  
_A sensible tactic from my grandfather. It would have worked if, instead of me, the person standing here came with the intention to use this opportunity to extort them. Though all my possessions are second-hand, it is unfortunate for them I am not that person. I am, after all, the resulting product of an union influenced by magic. I don’t want to believe him, my father, but it is only logical, even as a wizard I am different. Unnatural creations are always accursed on a certain aspect; dark magical theory and literature often include allusions to this matter._

 _Was I just a discardable being?_  
  
_A shifting, shapeless, pernicious fragment of myself bares its fangs. It demands retribution._  
  
“You cursed them.” Harry affirms; and nothing more. The absence of appalled judgment nonpluses Tom for a moment. Where has Harry drawn the line?  
  
It irks him, to have the urge to ask, “what do you think about me?” And again, Tom cannot stop himself from wondering what is that which Harry has that rouses reactions Tom deems uncharacteristic of himself.  
  
“I think there’s darkness in you, Tom, a lot of it.”  
  
Tom is unable to contradict Harry’s statement. There is no argument that can back him up. Harry just highlighted an unchangeable fact. “It’s still early, you could run away. I'll let you.”  
  
Harry smiles tenderly around the words, “I’m a Gryffindor.” Harry takes another step forward, shortening the distance separating their bodies. He lifts his arm, and places his hand upon Tom's chest. “The darkness,” Harry whispers, “should be tamed so it doesn't consume you.” Green eyes, vivid and candid, transmit the tailpiece of his message: _Trust me._  
  
Tom tilts his head slightly as he considers Harry, and then, before hesitation can restrain him, he captures the hand above his heart with an iron-like grasp.


	4. IV

**IV**

**4.1 Supplication**

Nobody asks for her name. She frequents places in which names are not important. They, the faceless people scrambling for bits of life in these places, teach her what is the most important thing: survival.

Soon, the unfortunate girl forgets her name.

A nameless vagabond drifting about in the dark is what she became. She whiles away the cold nights in the dirty nooks the city does its best to conceal behind its shallow glitter and transitory exuberance.

One of the last vestiges of her ancestry—a golden locket—she sold to an unscrupulous buyer. The meager payment she obtained in exchange much more important to her than anything else. She has the will to survive. The child growing within her body a remainder of the fleeting bliss she managed to have in the perfect fantasy she had longed for in her daydreams.

The fragility that clings to her emaciated figure grant her some pounds of pity. In her disconnected thoughts she believes it is more than what she deserves.

Inexplicable, sourceless trepidation pulls her out of unpleasant dreams one night. She rises as fast as she can, trembling and panting at the effort it takes to do so. She abandons her shelter made of cardboard and paper she shares with someone like herself. With her body swaying and shivering, she drags her bare feet across the streets, cradling with one arm her swollen belly—a hardly noticeable lump.

She wishes to deliver the baby somewhere safe, to at least give her child warmth and safety for tonight. Her companion told her of an orphanage that could assist her; she recalls the information, and heads to its location as drops of rain begin to fall first on her hair, lank and lacklustre, and then on her skin, arid and pallid and stretched too tight over brittle bones.

“Tom, like his dad, Tom,” she mutters, the name and its significance inject her with energy. Life finished brewing within her womb. A new life, a new child purified by the blood of his beloved. “My baby, a boy. Must be a boy. Beautiful, he, a Riddle, like his papa. Strong baby, beautiful boy.” What little is there of her inborn power turns her mutterings into fervent supplications interweaved with one of the oldest types of magic: the magic born of an earnest wish.

The errant girl looks up, and squints at the rather indistinct words floating in the sluggish clouds of fog: ‘Wool’s Orphanage’, she mouths. She sighs, relieved. She continues to shuffle along the sidewalk; leaving behind her a faint trail of red painted by the jagged little wounds spread over the soles of her feet.   

Hope eclipses the ever-present pain.  

 **4.2 Nightmare** ****  
**  
** “Farewell, happy fields,

where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,

infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell—”

Like a pendulum, the poor little thing swings like a pendulum; the involuntary motion of the innocent creature never ceases as she stares at its lifeless frame—a sudden force, foreign and cruel, is iterating that terrible instant of discovery against the rafters of her mind, while the child before her reads aloud on his bed,  oblivious to the perturbation eating through her composure. Those sparkling blue gems of his travel across the pages of the battered book he holds in his hands with the sort of intensity that precedes a mad frenzy.    

“...Receive thy new possessor, one who brings

A mind not to be changed by place or time.

the mind is its own place, and in itself

can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”

Martha was ready to fire an accusation and a most deserving sentence, but they perished upon the tip of her tongue at overhearing the impassioned intonations enriching a boyish voice rarely used by its owner. Though the door is partially open, she is unable to cross the threshold of his room. She feels an invisible rope wound tightly around her legs, paralyzing her completely.    

“...Here at least

we shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built,

Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:

Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,

to reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: ”

His deep immersion into the ancient poem mixed with the unnatural fluidity of his reading instills an incipient trepidation in her. Simultaneously, an stifling, acrid odor pervades the hallway as it drifts out of his room. It makes her recall the pale faces of Amy and Dennis reflecting an eerie emptiness that permanently erased infantile vivacity.

The mental image briefly transfers her to that one afternoon during the summer, in which a short trip to the beach took place. Their mysterious disappearance had her mulling over sinister possibilities, so Martha was assaulted by fathomless relief when she pinpointed their whereabouts at dawn after several hours of fruitless searching. She found two small bodies splayed on the sand, exuding a most foul stench from their clothes.

Martha never did find out what occurred that day, as their trauma only manifested itself through nightmares striking at midnight.

The sound of the door moving on its own draws her back to the present. It is about to close when Tom acknowledges her with an impassive glance. “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,” the boy declaims.

The door is shut.

Her terror mounted.

 

 **4.3 Fury** ****  
**  
** “Hello, Tom, my name is—”

Needles and tests and questions.

“I’m a doctor, now don’t be afraid, there are things I want to ask you, that’s all.”

More needles and more tests and more questions.

But the boy is a healthy child. His behaviour, however, is most perplexing for a child of his age; impassive at all times, giving curt replies to all the questions he is asked. The results affirm that, medically, there is nothing wrong. Medical concerns aside, it has been remarked that the boy has something tinted with otherworldliness in him.

Then, it is considered that a more thorough examination, however painful for the child, might be in order. Or, can the use of unorthodox methods as it has been suggested between whispers, be more suitable for his case?  

Eventually, the assistance of the parish is required.

The boy lies in his cot every night, his new room is bare, and windowless. He has shattered everything that is breakable in fits of quiet fury. Whether he is going to remain here indefinitely, he knows not.

With eyes wide open, he mutters (hisses) incessantly,

“I am not in _s_ ane.”

“I am not po ** _ss_ ** e ** _ss_ ** ed _._ ”

The boy later learns how to pretend to be someone he is not. To be someone _cured—saved_ . And soon, as his life becomes uneventful, he also learns to display the most _angelical_ smile only when the sun is up.

**4.4 Damnation**

“Do you know what...a Horcrux is?”

Shock seizes Harry for a moment.

“Your expression has just answered my question—you _do know_.” Blue eyes seem to darken with satisfaction. Harry averts his face, forcefully centering his focus on the ripples the caress of the wind makes over the surface of the Black Lake.

‘Have I replaced Slughorn?’ Harry thinks, uncertain and unprepared for this development. He is cold, awfully cold all of a sudden. “Yes, I’ve...read about it...what brought this on?”

“I recently came across with the term, I’ve been researching but I haven’t found more useful information.” There is fascination lighting up his fair face; it is unbound and overt. “I’ve said to you before that Immortality has been a subject I’ve been most interested in—and so, what would it take to defeat Death, I’ve wondered. I’ve come to consider it the ultimate form of greatness; a Wizard’s supreme achievement. To defeat Death...I wish to attain this power.”  

Harry is surprised by Tom’s openness regarding the matter, but the feeling wanes, and dread germinates in its stead. ‘I can’t make the same mistake! but what do I tell him?’ are the thoughts flitting through his mind.

Furtively, dusty memories wriggle forward. Harry quickly identifies them and makes to stamp them out but they manage to elude him. The memories replay themselves, sliding a compilation of related images to the front of his mind and—  
  
As a result, his indecision does not last a second longer.    
  
****

**4.5 Delay  
**  
It has always been inevitable. His death. The acceptance of this fact leaves him numb. He walks through the forest, knowing he has to lay his life before the enemy to end the growth of a war in which allies and enemies have forgotten the purpose impelling their continued fight.

He hears the sound of running feet behind him. Harry stops. He turns around. He sees the faces of his two best friends. Looking for him. They know him too well. They are desperate; worry is deeply etched on their pale faces as they implore him to show himself. To return to the castle with them.

He believed invisibility would make him immune to this. To their pleas.  
  
He lets himself be convinced that maybe, there is another way, one in which his impending sacrifice is unneeded. It is a most terrible lie that unloads an empty, foul imitation of hope in their hearts. For them, though, it is enough, and it will have to be enough for him too.

Harry complies, and with trembling fingers, he slides the cloak off his shoulders.

It is exhausting, to be brave.

**4.6 Execution**

A man—no, he is not a man, nor is he a creature of any kind. In truth, it is hard to tell _what_ he is, even to those who are cognizant of the particulars of his resurrection: _He_ is a being manufactured with the darkest types of magic. His humanity willingly discarded a long, long time ago. Many believe him to be the personification of destruction—and this might be the sole conjecture, among all the sensational ones, nearing the perimeter of verity.

We only know that he is the mightiest dark wizard in our midst, that we owe Him our undying servitude and allegiance, and that we ought to call him _our Lord._

We all feel an abrupt shift in the magical atmosphere, an instant in which we all are certain that the time has come. Our Lord vacates his throne of marble and black velvet. His long dark robes caress the ground as he glides toward the podium before him. Long, thin fingers slide his hood off his head, exposing his serpentine appearance.

We have been anticipating this day.

The Lord makes a gesture with his hands that encompasses each and every one of us. “Welcome, my children, welcome.” His voice, soft with a hint of sibilance, permeates our heads, entrapping our focus and our thoughts. “Today, we are reunited to witness the end of the keystone of the opposition,” He pauses to raise the volume and the intensity of his speech, “yes, my friends, we have finally caught Harry Potter, leader of the Light!”

We gasp. A blanket of silence enfolds the utter amazement of which we all seemed to be victims; the implications deriving from our Lord’s proclamation setting in our minds. Then, the silence is ripped apart in a matter of seconds as the news infuse us with exultation. Our bodies spring off the seats, our fists jab at the air, and our incoherent roars of joy reach a crescendo in the stadium we fashioned under His orders.

Four years ago, we should have won the war at Hogwarts, but our enemies resisted. They did not comply with our Lord’s only demand. Now, though, this final blow will render our enemies defenseless. We will take this chance to annihilate them, and then, we can have the world for ourselves as our Lord, our immortal God, has promised. We will not hide any longer, we are superior and therefore, we have the right to rule! This is the true birth of our empire.

Today’s upcoming event will mark the official termination of the war; a landmark in wizarding history, for today is Execution Day!

Our joyous display pleases our Master, and he rewards us by dispelling the concealment charm at the center of the stadium with an easy wave of his hand. Our Lord just told us who is going to be revealed, but we are astonished nonetheless when we see the countenance of the wizard hindering our imminent ascent to infinite power and glory.

The pride and obstinacy he exudes does not fail to baffle us. It is as though he is speaking in a foreign language, we cannot translate his sentences but we can comprehend what he means by way of context: _I’m not defeated,_ he booms, _I won’t yield to your Lord!_ —this is what he expresses without using his voice.

The young man’s current demeanour is a definite contrast to his appearance. For he is in a haggard state, wearing clothes ragged and stained with accumulated filth. Tangled locks of hair frame the sharp contours of his wan face; a face that evinces through sunken, bloodshot eyes the relentless persecution he underwent.

“It is a pleasure to have you here with us, Harry Potter.” The Lord says. “A shame you refused to join our side.” The Lord steps off the podium to approach the prisoner. The famous Harry Potter stands on uneven ground; the shackles encircling his wrists and ankles glint under the sun, invisible runes engraved into the metal impede the spontaneous use of magic.

Our Lord trains his wand on Harry Potter. “I shall concede you the chance to utter your last words.”

“I’m here because there’s no other solution,” the young wizard rasps out, “but I can assure you this is certainly _not_ the end.”

Our Lord’s laugh is a long mocking hiss. “ _Ah,_ _Potter_ , you should know that all the people willing to adopt your folly were hunted; sadly, none of them la _s_ ted as long a _s_ you did.”

Despite our Lord’s incisive, venomous taunt, Harry Potter’s swift response is a lethal grin: “Kill me, _Tom Riddle_ , I’ll reserve a seat for you beside me in hell.”

 

 **4.7 Crossroads** ****  
**  
** _“It’d be amazing if there was a way to, you know, cross out all the bad stuff that’s happened or just bin it like I do with every potions essay.” Hermione’s exasperated look at Ron’s tactlessness in his offhand comment evokes unwanted nostalgia. Harry relives the moment, over and over again, so that he can agree wholeheartedly._

At once, his shoulders convulsed, his eyes open in a rapid flutter, and his head jerks away from the window. Confused, Harry adjusts his glasses as he surveys his surroundings. In spite of his initial confusion, he easily identifies, with the certainty of a regular passenger, his present location.

Harry looks out the window, taking in a vast expanse of—sand? “A desert,” Harry mutters, amazement seeping through his voice, “I’m travelling across a desert in the Hogwarts Express….”

He was not expecting to end up in a desert of all places when he declared his refusal to return to life. His firm resolution to aboard the Train rose an inscrutable expression on Albus Dumbledore’s face, for it was inspired by the cries of everlasting agony suffered by the deformed living thing beneath the bench.

Though it was a conscious choice, Harry wished to avoid being a receptacle for disappointment or displeasure here in the afterlife. Professor Dumbledore, however, merely nodded. A motion, short and simple, which denoted neutral respect at his final judgment.

The Train, with its countless wagons dashing forward before them, had halted, accentuating the inevitability of Harry’s departure. Noticing this, the former Headmaster of Hogwarts uttered, “I am old, very old indeed; and you were very young last I saw you. A boy who had needed guidance. Now, I can only entertain conjectures on the number of strifeful years that have moulded you into the self-sufficient warrior I see beside me.”   

“Something tells me that to dissuade you from what you have decided to do would be but a futile endeavour, so, perhaps, counsel is what you possibly require from me before your new journey commences.”

“Decisions are one of the vital components of life, and as such, are the vehicle that convey us to our next stop. I’m pleased you have learnt to make your own decisions, Harry, despite my unfamiliarity of what may be guiding you now. This decision—even if it proves to be the wrong one hereafter, promise me you will not be shackled by regret. Do not be the thrall of inaction. I entreat you to not let this be your sin.” Dumbledore paused to expel uncontainable ardour from his breast in his next breath. “Refrain from constantly looking behind you. Move forward, Harry. Always.”

Harry stared at the wizard, awed by the frankness underlying his speech. “I promise!” Harry exclaimed, feeling like the naive, impressionable little boy he had once been. The multiplying resentments corroding his regard for the wizard several years ago, had been dulled, partly, by constant reflections appended to his transition to adulthood, and by the explanations his old professor provided during the shy beginnings of their current conversation.

Professor Dumbledore smiled at him. It was a smile brimming with bittersweet fondness directed at certain instances from his past. “And last but not least...protect the fire still nestled in your heart, for it will keep you warm and wise against adversity.”

“I’m not fully acquainted with the man you have grown into, yet I must say he seems trustworthy.” After saying this, pensive quietude filled the tender spaces lingering between them. At length, the wizard stepped back, remarking, “I believe, Harry, it is time for you to go.”  

“Thank you, sir.” A bow accompanied by three words spoken with clarity, encompassed, somehow, a tide of gratitude Harry was surprised to find he genuinely felt. 

  
The towering frame of Albus Dumbledore became a lone beacon in the distance, decreasing in height as it disappeared from view amid the silvery spectral plane shaped as King’s Cross station.

Harry came aboard the Train knowing the duration of his travel was unknown as was the place at which his own ‘next stop’ could be. He entered one of the many compartments and sat down. The collage of pleasant memories, stirred up by the recognition of the  compartment in which he met his best friends, eased him into a light dream.

 

(The agonised wails of the little creature beside him diminished. Along with its protector, it slept peacefully.)

 **4.8 Past** ****  
**  
** The Train comes to a halt as Harry traverses its long corridors. He does not even wonder whether it is safe to go out there or not as he would have done were he alive. After having lived long years defined by peril, he wants a little bit of the carelessness he never could entirely afford in his life, hence, he sprints through low dunes in a burst of vim, splashing grains of sand from weathered sneakers, following the lead of the zephyr as he embraces the warm sun.

After a while, Harry halts his spontaneous run, and flops down on the sand, setting himself in a hunched, graceless posture. Though he is content to just be here, and let more idle moments pass, he knows he must continue. He needs to find, he supposes, the purpose of his arrival to this desert. He glances back at the Train; it is there still, an enormous red machine in the middle of the desert, resting temporarily like its passenger.

When Harry turns his head, he sees a long stick lying on the sand near his feet. As far as Harry knows, it appeared out of the blue. He draws his feet away, interlacing his legs to better inspect the suspicious object. Fifteen inches, is his quick estimate of its length. Its surface seems smooth and polished. It can easily be overlooked, its color being the desert’s own shade of gold. Then, why is he noticing the stick now? Hard-earned precaution commands him not to touch it if he is unsure of it being a benign object.

The stick trembles, then picks itself up, and begins to write on the sand, transcribing the dictation uttered by an unseen individual like a Self-Writing Quill: _You finally see what is before you because you are ready to do so._

He has had all sorts of experiences with magical devices which had some form of sentience. It is understandable then, the alarm surging in him as he watches a stick writing with neat calligraphy another harmless string of words. It reminds him of a little book, black ink, and a beguiling youth.  
  
_Time can assist you._  
  
“Time?” Harry asks, perplexed. It seems that even his afterlife has its own set of extraordinary situations to showcase.  

 _Yes, Time, invisible and infinite; one of the pillars sustaining your world. Time is the entity you have chosen, whereas Fate, Life and Death, have chosen you._  

The stick is upright, hovering over the full stop; waiting, probably, for him to say something. Harry blinks, messing his hair up as he puzzles over the meaning of what is written on the sand. After some useless, roundabout pondering, he decides to go ahead. There is nothing more to lose when one is already dead, after all. “Can you elaborate more on...everything? I’m afraid you’ve completely lost me.”

The tip of the stick dips into the sand and writes: _Time’s transport_ , _the Train, has brought you to Time’s domain. This is the Desert of Time._

A draught buries the previous sentence, and Time proceeds:

_Fate chose you (and your counterbalance) through a Prophecy._

_Life chose you (and your counterbalance) through a Transgression._  
_Death chose you (and your counterbalance) through Lineage._

_You chose to use Time to save a friend._

It is not difficult for Harry to make the association.

“Sirius.” Harry mutters, in a dispassionate tone moulded by countless losses. For it happened so long ago to a slightly different person: a godfather’s clever rescue, a fleeting victory fueling the desire for a parent’s loving care; and subsequently, a godfather’s abrupt departure, a deep mark in the already scarred soul of a guilt-ridden child.

He, now an adult, forcefully banishes the presence of old memories by focusing on a particular term which caught his attention first, “counterbalance—what does Time mean by that?’” Harry enquires, altering, instinctively, his form of address to the ancient entity.

_A counterbalance is the sole being in this universe who complements another._

No.

_Your case is most peculiar, since you hold a piece of the soul of your counterbalance. The connection is a literal one._

No.

It cannot be, it should be impossible, and yet, Harry does not need tangible evidence to verify the implications of those statements because: “ _he_ returned to me,” he says, with the wonder of an epiphany. “ _S_ omehow, _he’_ ** _s_ ** back where _he_ wa _s_ .” Suddenly, Harry can feel it, _Him,_ battling against his denial by palpitating like a heart beneath the hand he placed upon the center of his chest.

Harry confirms _he_ is there, “in **_s_ ** ide me,” as the spectre of a malevolent monster.

Harry looks out the windows of his soul, finding electric blue eyes holding something tainted but true—the fragment of an outcast, unconsciously yearning for an intangible, indescribable thing, ever nonsensical and foreign to him. Rancorous vociferations Harry is certain he has heard in obscure dreams, are gentle, subdued whispers when they reach his ears at daylight, whispers becoming clearer and richer each night, gaining strength and substance throughout the years.  

_If it is your desire to use Time to save once more, Time can provide the means. Time can rupture the fabric of space for you to slip into the place it is believed appropriate as long as it is under Time’s domain._

“What is the reason you are all doing this?”

 _Your counterbalance has_ transgressed _the Laws of Life, and your_ decision _has levelled a prominence in the Plains of Fate. Thus, a Pact has been made to regulate the natural flow of Life and Death as well as to amend Fate’s domain. Time can make this happen, as Time is the one impartial entity that cannot choose but can be chosen._

He narrowed his eyes. Nothing in his life has come free of charge. “What’d Time want in exchange?”

_The Past is the sustenance of Time._

_The price is your Past._

 

**4.9 Snare  
**

“You have to resort to murder. Murder splits your soul. Find a vessel, an object that will store  a part of your broken soul. Then, you use an incantation and a ritual and I think that’s it.” Harry laughs; a rough sound made unpleasant by its glaring contempt. “The perfect recipe for disaster.”  
  
“Your knowledge is detailed.” Tom looks confused. He is at a lost as to how to interpret Harry’s drastic change in behaviour.

Harry is just a bit satisfied by that.

Tom’s eyes narrow in suspicion. He shifts, trespassing without a care personal boundaries of space to stand in front of Harry, close and sharing the same air. “Have you ever done or considered—”

“No. Never. I’m not afraid of Death.”  
  
His declaration stuns Tom Riddle into silence. The words had some sort of power. Harry is not lying, and it is not naive red and gold bravery talking for him either. It is him; the Harry behind the shield. There is a world of something behind his green eyes he cannot identify or decode, but doubtless it is something that makes him want to believe, even if it is only for a foolish moment, that such a thing can actually be possible: to not be afraid of Death; to be immune to the dread that the thought of its imminent touch ignites. Death is after all, the one unbeatable force that is to blame his life is the way it always has been.

“ _How_?” Tom asks urgently. “How?”

Harry stays silent. He smiles though, his knowing expression betraying a chain of secrets he is, for now, disinclined to tell.

 **4.10 Pact** ****

Harry stops himself from unearthing more memories. It is enough. The blade reminiscence wields so expertly, is still so sharp after all. It is a fine sunday morning, and Harry dispels the bitter taste sudden introspection leaves in his mouth before he meets Tom in Hogsmeade.

A white dress shirt gradually covers his bare back. The fabric conceals the runic seal located between his shoulder blades. It is Time’s seal; a tangible validation of the Pact. There is  nothing similar in the existent magical literature. The small, intricately beautiful tattoo, carved on his back with golden ink, is what has been anchoring him to this time.

Presently, though, the seal is incomplete. Half of it is missing: golden strokes and interweaving lines which have slowly been vanishing from the surface of his skin.

  
It means that half of the Pact has been fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the kudos/comments/bk/subs!
> 
> I'm not happy with this chap but it was what I had.  
> Oh and in 4.2 I imagined little Tom reading Satan's speech (in Milton's Paradise Lost) and thought it was totally creepy. That's why I added that.  
> I've noticed I've been using both american and british spelling :/ sorry bout tht.  
> Thnks for reading and I hope this chap wasn't too crappy, I've been terribly sick.


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